Color Me Crazy

by Carol Pavliska

  “Bud,” Mitch said, “did you think that stuff was yours? Have you thought that all this time?”

  Yes, he had. Where else would she have gotten it? His head swam, and he reached behind him to grab the El Camino’s handle. But before he could yank on it, Mitch grabbed him and pulled him away from the car.

  This was good. They were going to fight. He wanted to fight. He took a swing, a bad one, and Mitch pulled him in, squeezing him tightly. Julian was taller, but Mitch was heavier, and he held him easily.

  “Julian,” Mitch said. “You didn’t kill that girl. Do you hear me? It wasn’t you.”

  Julian choked back a sob. Maybe the drugs weren’t his, but if Gina hadn’t hooked up with him, she’d probably be alive. Mitch seemed to think he could forget about it, as if life had moved on peacefully and they’d left no path of destruction in their wakes. No strung-out kids, no broken hearts, and no dead girls.

  “The last thing I said to Gina was, ‘Stop being a crazy bitch,’” Julian said.

  Mitch didn’t say anything at first. Kids’ voices floated on the breeze. Someone started a lawn mower somewhere. “You were young and stupid. You didn’t know you’d never see her again. Believe me, I know how that works.”

  Julian pulled away and wiped his face. Fuck. He sniffed loudly and spat a manly loogie. Mitch did the same.

  “When did your wife die?” Julian asked. It sounded horribly conversational.

  Mitch adjusted his baseball cap, even grabbed his crotch briefly before replying, “Three years ago. A guy ran a stop sign. Emily was six months old and in the car seat. She barely had a scratch on her, thank God. But Meg caught it on the driver’s side. She died two days later. The last thing she heard me say was, ‘Get the right kind of cereal this time.’”

  “Sorry,” Julian mumbled. That must have been awful.

  Mitch cleared his throat before adding, “My three girls have kept me going.”

  “Three? The biggest horndog of all time is raising three daughters?”

  Mitch laughed. “Karma, man.”

  “No shit.”

  “Meg already had Rachel when we met, and we added two more to the mix. We talked about having another one, but, well, anyway.” He sniffed. “I sure as shit didn’t deserve her. Or the woman I’ve got now, for that matter.”

  The woman I’ve got now. Julian narrowed his eyes and glared at Mitch, who smiled that stupid Mitch smile and said, “Listen, about that. Addie and I have something to tell you.”

  “Daddy!”

  Julian winced and turned toward the source of the hot pink spear that had stabbed him between the shoulder blades. Addie walked down the driveway carrying a blue bundle. “I throwed up,” it shouted.

  “Congratulations,” Mitch said, holding out his arms. Wispy blond hair poked out of the blue blanket. “Let me take her, Addie.”

  Two chubby arms emerged from the blanket and wrapped around Addie’s neck. “No. Addie said she’d hold me all day ’cause I’m sick.”

  The blanket fell away, revealing feverish blue eyes set in a cherubic face. “Who are you?” she asked Julian.

  “Emily, this is my brother, Julian.”

  Emily put a chubby hand on each cheek and emitted a squeal that was painfully fuchsia, tinted with the scents of bubble gum and vomit. It had been a while since anyone had been so thrilled to meet him. “Uncle Julian!”

  “No, no,” said Julian. “I’m not your uncle.”

  “Brothers are uncles, and sisters are aunts,” the little girl said. “Laura told me.”

  It wasn’t smart to argue with someone of her stature, but he couldn’t help it. “I’m Addie’s brother, not your daddy’s. You’re not related to me.”

  The child clearly didn’t believe him and turned to Addie. “But when we have the princess wedding, and you’re my mommy, he’ll be my uncle then, right?”

  All of the color drained out of Addie’s face. She glanced up at Julian. “We were waiting for the right time to tell you.”

  Jesus. How many shocks could he handle in one day? “There is no right time.”

  “That seemed to be the problem we were experiencing, pal,” Mitch said.

  The sounds, the smells, the unearthed emotions about Gina…Julian’s legs buckled.

  “Julian,” Addie said, “don’t start.”

  Like he could fucking help it. He took a deep breath, but he was still suffocating. He sat down on the driveway and covered his ears.

  “Don’t you start that,” Addie warned, handing Emily to Mitch. “You cannot pull this right now, do you hear me? It won’t make a bit of difference. We’re getting married.”

  A slight buzzing sound set in. “Motherfucker,” he said.

  “Uncle Julian said a bad, bad word,” Emily yelled. The pink lightning bolt almost split his head in two, and then a tidal wave of colored sludge, consisting of every sound within a twelve-mile radius, descended. The distant traffic noise, the hum of the power lines, birds, dogs, kids—it all blended in a painful collision with Addie’s news, Gina’s memory, and Cleo’s absence.

  Cleo. The scent of tangerines surrounded him, and he breathed in deeply again. This time it helped. The sludge began to lift.

  “Don’t go nutters,” Addie said. “Come inside.”

  “We’ll have tea,” Emily shrieked. He covered his ears with his hands and put his head between his knees. Some rocking would help. Then he’d get in his car and drive home, find Cleo, everything would be fine. If he could just get to Cleo…

  “He’s rude,” Emily whispered. It was an earsplitting sound.

  “Oh, dear,” said Addie. “Mitch, do something.”

  “Do you want me to pick him up and carry him into the house?” Mitch asked.

  “He’s not a child. And you couldn’t pick him up. Goodness, Mitch.”

  “I’ve done it, before, sweetheart. Of course I was younger, then.” He touched Julian on the shoulder. “Come on, buddy. Let’s go inside.”

  “Is he sick?” Emily asked.

  “Yes,” Addie said.

  “Is he gonna throw up?”

  “He’s not sick, darlin’,” Mitch said. “He’s just weirder than shit.”

  “Bad word,” screamed Emily.

  “Mitch,” Addie snapped. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Addie, he’s a thirty-three-year-old man, rocking back and forth on my driveway with his hands over his ears. How do you explain it?”

  Julian couldn’t take any more. While they bickered about how fucked-up he was, he pulled himself to his feet and yanked on the handle of his car door. Before they could stop him, he’d climbed in, started it up, and taken off down the road, concentrating on the scent of tangerines and, most of all, Cleo.

  ...

  The studio’s mail formed a nice, round pile on Cleo’s love seat. She’d been trying to sort and re-sort it, but she couldn’t keep track of what was what. Where the heck was Julian?

  The morning after had been awful. Julian had sneaked out, leaving her to wake alone. Three hours later, he’d torn back into the room, grabbing things and throwing them into suitcases—muttering about missing their flight.

  By the time they’d gotten home, it was late, and, without a word to each other, they had both fallen into their own beds. She’d woken up this morning—dying of curiosity about the results of his clinic appointment—only to find he’d left again.

  Abandoning the stack of mail, she flipped on the television, leaned back into the purple velour cushions of the love seat, and closed her eyes.

  A slamming car door woke her a short time later. In a sleepy haze, she stumbled to her door. Did she want to close it and give Julian a taste of his own medicine? A nice whopping dose of the silent treatment? Or did she want to sit him down and force him to talk?

  He came barreling into the loft before she could decide.

  “Cleo!”

  “Is everything okay?” she asked. He was drenched in sweat.

  “Now it is.” He grabbed h
er, pulling her close. She stood stiffly, arms at her sides, doing her best impression of a startled manikin.

  Did he just sniff her hair? “Baby, you smell so good.”

  Did he just call her baby? And what was that pressing into her belly? Julian moved his hips and—oh. He was very happy to see her. What had brought about this change in temperament?

  Tremors passed through his body into hers. “Hold me,” he whispered.

  She put her arms around him with a sense of déjà vu. This was a synesthesia episode. Was it ever possible for both of them to be in their right minds at the same time? She lifted her face to his. Eyes slightly unfocused. Yep. The boy was going down. What could she do to help him?

  He sniffed her hair again—weird—and his lips curved into a small smile. Maybe it was that easy. “Feeling better?”

  “Mmm,” he moaned. “Please, Cleo, I want some more.”

  He was like a heavily tattooed Oliver Twist, but he wasn’t asking for gruel. “More of what?”

  “Of you.” Her heart pounded like a bass drum. He lifted her chin with his fingertips, bent his head, and kissed her. And he was just as good at it as he was the last time. She parted her lips in invitation, he accepted, and her knees went weak; it was a good thing he held her so tightly.

  He walked her backward through her apartment, straight to the unmade bed, and pushed her down gently. “Cleo,” he gasped. “I need you.”

  Needed her to do what? “Listen, you’re a little off. Or a lot, actually. Muy loco at the moment. The kissing was fun, but we should probably stop now.”

  He pulled his shirt over his head, and Cleo lost her conviction. Good grief, she’d memorized every angle, plane, and tattoo on his beautiful chest, but she still couldn’t stop staring. She reached up to touch him, and he brought her hand to his lips. His tongue traced the lines of her palm, eyes searching hers, asking what she was willing to give.

  Everything. God, she was willing to give him everything. But first, he had to be brought back to the surface. She wanted him mind, body, and soul—and all three were not currently available.

  He crawled onto the bed with her. The window was open, and a car drove by with its stereo blaring. Julian flinched, then buried his head against her breast.

  She started the trick that had worked before. “This old man, he played one…”

  He clung less tightly with each verse. The shivering stopped. For some stupid reason, her singing a nursery rhyme pulled him out of it. Crazy.

  “This old man, he played eight…”

  Julian’s hand ran up under her T-shirt, straight to her breast. He squeezed it gently and pulled the cup of her bra down, his fingers nimbly finding the nipple.

  “He played knick-knack on my gate…”

  His mouth went to her breast. He sucked gently before flicking the silver stud in his tongue across her nipple. She couldn’t have come up with a knick-knack paddywhack, give a dog a bone if her life depended on it.

  “Feeling better?” she asked, breathlessly.

  “Mmm-hmm,” he said, lifting his face from her breast. His eyes were perfectly clear, fully focused, and bright. “That’s a horrid nursery rhyme. You couldn’t sing a bit of the Cure, maybe? It has to be give a dog a bone with you?”

  He was back. “Sorry. It’s weird, isn’t it? But that’s what comes out when I’m…” She searched for a word to describe how she felt.

  “Horny?”

  No point in denying it.

  “You just invited me to play knick-knack on your gate,” he said with a devilish grin. “You’ll have to open it for me, though.”

  He kissed her again, and she let her thighs fall open.

  “What do you say, Cleo? Can this old man come rolling home?”

  “Yes,” she said. “We’re both in possession of our full faculties, right?” She was on fire. And only Julian’s touch could put it out.

  “I don’t know that our faculties are anything to brag about. And I need to give you something to do with your mouth. Otherwise, the two remaining paddywhacks might slip out and spoil the mood.”

  Like she could possibly sing right now.

  “Here, baby. Suck on this.” He slipped a finger between her lips, slowly working it in and out. “That’s better,” he said.

  He went back to her breast with his mouth, and she used her tongue to caress his finger. It was strangely erotic, sucking on a finger, and when he offered another, she hungrily accepted. Just as she got used to having a full mouth, Julian’s fingers on his other hand trailed down to her shorts. He rubbed her gently, and she moaned, opening her legs wider. His fingers slipped inside her shorts, pushing aside the crotch of her panties. She thrust her hips forward, and he slid a single finger in.

  “Cleo,” he whispered, removing his fingers from her mouth. “I want to make love to you.”

  Okay, he hadn’t said, Alice, I want to make love to you. He’d said Cleo, and he knew what he was doing and whom he was doing it with. She’d wanted him so desperately and for so long, she only hesitated a second before saying, “Okay. But we need a condom.”

  He groaned with frustration.

  “I think I have one,” she said.

  “Hurry.”

  Cleo scooted off the bed and scurried the two or three feet to her tiny bathroom, where she scrounged around urgently. The corner of a foil pack poked out from behind a tube of antibacterial ointment. She snatched it up and bounded back to the bed, where Julian lay, stripped down to nothing. The bed was also stripped.

  “There were cookie crumbs,” Julian explained. “Sorry.” He grabbed her and pulled her onto the mattress, now covered only by the soft fleece pad she liked to spread beneath her sheets. It felt good against her skin, soft and fuzzy and ooh! Something hard ran up the inside of her thigh.

  “Oh, Julian.” She sighed.

  He rose to his knees and fumbled with the foil packet before using his teeth to rip it open. He swiftly rolled the condom on, and with an impressive martial arts type of a move, had her ankles up over his shoulders.

  Her shorts were still on. Julian finally realized it, and he ran a finger under the seamed crotch and effortlessly ripped it apart. Cleo yelped in surprise, then the tiny side seam of her panties received the same treatment. He held her legs open and took a good, long look.

  She blushed under his intense gaze, waiting for the usual comment about her being a natural redhead. But all he said was, “Beautiful.”

  Cleo tensed for a forceful entry. But Julian was surprisingly gentle, pouring himself into her. He groaned and leaned in, causing her legs to part and her heels to slip off his shoulders, sliding slowly down his arms until her knees were crooked at his elbows. She was at his mercy.

  He drove a strong, hard rhythm with a measured cadence. Cleo’s body responded hungrily, seeking friction in that perfect spot. The fleece pad beneath her was soft, and the unrelenting man on top of her was hard. “You okay?” he asked, gazing down at her through strands of hair.

  “God, yes,” she whispered. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”

  She was lost in the sensations. Gone was the mental self-talk that usually plagued her during sex, the endless internal ramblings and assessments as to her partner’s or her own peculiarities, the constant estimations of timeliness or ponderings over the likelihood of orgasm. She was immersed in the act of loving. This was making love. They were creating something. Could Julian actually see it?

  Liquid warmth radiated from the center of her body. Cleo arched her back and let her legs fall open, tingling to the tips of her fingers and toes. Usually she needed more direct stimulation than intercourse to achieve an orgasm, but Julian had her out of her mind with pleasure. He knew what he was doing—no doubt about it—but it wasn’t his skill at pushing her buttons that had her about to come undone. It was the idea that it was him taking her over the top of the crest. It was Julian.

  “Oh, fuck, baby. It’s so good,” he gasped. He moved faster, and Cleo’s heart sped up according
ly. Lifting her hips, she opened her legs as wide as she could, and her orgasm slammed into her like a tidal wave. It was so intense she cried out, bucking and writhing as a million bursts of lights and colors exploded in her head.

  Julian’s eyes were wide open, taking it all in.

  An instant later, he lost his rhythm, the muscles in his arms trembled and shook, and finally, he sank into her one final time before shuddering and collapsing on top of her.

  He breathed raggedly into the pillow, skin slick with sweat, hair damp against her cheek. She wrapped her legs around him and melted into the fleece pad, feeling warm and sleepy. He stilled and rolled gently off her. Then he dropped his head to her breast, and she held him tightly.

  She knew she shouldn’t do it, but she whispered, “I love you.”

  Would he answer? She held her breath.

  All was silent.

  ...

  Julian stirred, coming slowly out of a dream. He looked around the room, waiting for the puzzle pieces to fall into place and hoping they’d do it quickly.

  “My God,” Cleo said. She grabbed a pillow and covered herself with it. “You don’t remember a thing.”

  Naked, alarmed, and angry-looking women were not among his favorite things. And this one looked as if she might kill him.

  “Don’t freak. It takes me a minute,” he said. There was still some buzzing going on in his head. He’d been a mess, very upset about something… What was it? It smashed into him like a baby grand falling out of a window. Addie. Goddamn.

  “My sister’s marrying Mitch Landrum.”

  “Okay, so we had sex. I was kind of hoping that’s the part you would remember,” Cleo said. “And there’s no way Addie’s getting married. You’re delusional.”

  Of course, he knew they’d had sex. He couldn’t remember the details at the moment, but he knew they’d had sex, like he knew his hair was brown and his name was Julian. He closed his eyes and silently counted…one, two, three…that’s all it took.

  When he opened his eyes, Cleo was staring at his cock, which was rock hard.

  “Oh, my. I do believe you just remembered.” She wore a little half smile, and her cheeks were pink.